


you say: love, baby, let’s go back to my flat

by kattyshack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dirty Talk, F/M, Humor, Mutual Pining, POV Jon, Porn Without Plot, Sexual Content, wingman ygritte
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 17:32:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11788020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: It takes three months, two beers, and one goading round of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” for Jon to finally make a real move on Sansa. It’s perhaps not the most impressive of starts, but it’s effective all the same.(title from “your song,” by rita ora)





	you say: love, baby, let’s go back to my flat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amymel86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amymel86/gifts).



> a/n: instead of more lovable smut in her most recent chapter of “strictly professional,” amy hit me with light angst and i’m taking it personally—so i’ve dedicated this oneshot to her in my efforts to make her feel guilty. YOUR MOVE, AMELIA*
> 
> *i know that’s not your name but like ???? it’s the only way you’ll know that I Mean Business
> 
> p.s. i’ll be returning to my multichapters more regularly once season 7 is over and i’m a bit less distracted by work for wicnet. in the meantime, oneshots it is. i have quite a few half-finished, so if you subscribe to me one day you’re gonna get like six emails about new stories i’ve posted, probably

Jon’s not quite sure how it started, but he and Sansa had nevertheless fallen into a weekend routine:

It’s Friday night and they’re at the Hole-In-the-Wall pub. Jon’s hanging ‘round the bar because his mates are the ones slinging drinks, and Sansa’s with a gaggle of her friends at a nearby table. Jon’s dressed down and Sansa’s dolled up. He stares at her more blatantly than he’d like to as the night wears on. He’d like to be _cool_ and _aloof_ but he can never quite swing it, so instead he’s obvious and a bit pathetic.

Once Jon’s comfortably inebriated, Tormund mixes a lemon drop and, with a suggestive eyebrow waggle, slides it across the sticky countertop. Pyp and Grenn laugh at his expense; Edd and Sam try not to smirk. If Theon’s there, he tells Jon that Robb’s totally gonna kick his arse if he finds out. But Theon’s never told, so Jon shrugs it off and takes the lemon drop to Sansa, who always looks too happy to see him to be true. But Sansa’s never been the disingenuous sort, so Jon squashes his self-doubt and enjoys her smiles for however long he can pull them from her.

The night winds down around two or three A.M., and Jon and Sansa take a cab back to his. He’s always more sober than she is, so nothing ever _happens_. No, she just slips into one of his old T-shirts and they watch late-night infomercials until they fall asleep on the couch. Sansa wakes up first and if she ever notices his hard-on pressed against her back or her hip—or, on one memorable occasion, right up against the apex of her long, lovely thighs—she thankfully never says anything about it. She just makes coffee and eggs while Jon takes care of his situation in the shower, always with one hand braced on the wall and the other working out his frustrations while he thinks about her in whatever shirt she’d worn to bed the night before.

She looks so fucking good in his T-shirts that Jon hardly even feels guilty about it. He wants to peel them from her slowly, or rip them to shreds, or just push his hands up the front to palm her tits while he sucks on her neck and fucks her into the couch.

But he doesn’t do any of that—he _can’t_ do any of that, because he’s only got the courage when he’s been drinking and it wouldn’t be right to pounce on her when they’re both off-their-arses toasted—so he gets himself off to the fantasy and thinks that the fantasy will have to do. It’s not enough, but… Well, there’s not much of a _but_ , really. The fantasy’s not enough and he’s just got to deal with it.

Jon already has a bad habit of brooding, and this certainly doesn’t help matters. He’s a miserable bastard and he knows it; there’s just nothing he can do about it, as far as he’s concerned. Chatting Sansa up is all well and good when they’ve been drinking, but making a pass at her when she’s all but stuck at his flat in the middle of the night? No fucking dice. He may entertain sexual fantasies about her, but he’s not that much of a complete lech.

So he takes the coward’s way, and makes lovesick puppy eyes at her and perhaps stares at her mouth too long and too lingeringly, and he contents himself with thoughts of kissing her up against the nearest wall.

This goes on for three and a half months before everyone’s patience is irreparably snapped—which, in the end, is better news for Jon than it initially appears.

“I swear to _fuck_ ,” Ygritte nearly shouts out of virtually nowhere, “if you don’t take that girl home and immediately impregnate her, I’ll kick your mopey arse and then I’ll fuck her myself!”

Lucky thing the pub’s so loud and crowded, otherwise Jon’s sure Sansa would have heard Ygritte’s declaration and then god knows she’d never come near him again. Sure, Ygritte hadn’t dropped any names, but it’s not like Jon spends his time chatting up any other girl but Sansa, so the powers of deduction would speak clearly enough.

“Oi!” Val—Ygritte’s girlfriend and the very person for whom she’d (amicably) ditched Jon three-odd years ago—protests, but Ygritte pacifies her with a hand on her thigh.

“It’s for the greater good, love,” she says by way of explanation, but her tender expression shifts to near-on homicidal when she turns back to Jon. “You’ve been mooning over this girl for months. Actual months, and you’ve known her forever so what’s the deal, Snow? You haven’t got to impress her, she already knows you fuckin’ suck but she’s all over you, anyway, so make a goddamn move, why don’t you?”

Jon opens his mouth to retort, but he’s got nothing so he shuts it and broods some more.

Truthfully, he’s glad that his friends are rooting for him to do something about these long-harbored feelings. He’s grateful for Tormund’s expert lemon drops, for Sam’s thoughtful advice, and he’s relieved that Ygritte and Sansa get on so well. He’d been afraid that they wouldn’t, that Ygritte’s wild persona would clash with Sansa’s cool manners; but one night Jon had returned from the loo and suddenly the pair of them were doing shots together and commiserating over how shitty men are.

“I like her,” Ygritte had muttered approvingly when she stole his beer. “Best get that pussy on lockdown, Snow.”

Of course, Jon had done no such thing, and he hasn’t even got an excuse when Ygritte’s looking at him the way she is now.

“That girl’s a dime,” she tells him as if he doesn’t already know, “and you’re tellin’ me that you’re not gonna do anything about it?”

“I’m not telling you anything,” Jon points out. His hands itch for a cigarette, but he’d kicked the habit in the time it took for Sansa’s nose to crinkle in distaste when he’d lit up in front of her. He hadn’t even taken a drag of his last cig; Sansa had masked her discomfort, but Jon had already crushed his Lucky and tossed the remainder of the pack in the bin.

Ygritte looks as if she might kill him, and quite frankly Jon wouldn’t put it past her.

“Just because you’re pretty,” she says, half scathing, half haughty, “doesn’t mean you get a free pass to be a fucking idiot.”

“Jesus,” Jon grumbles, and takes a long, fortifying pull of his lager because he doesn’t want to admit that she’s right. If she’s right, that means Jon’s going to have to _do something_ about it, and if he’s being honest with himself, Jon fucking hates _doing_ _something_ about just about anything.

It must be something like fate that gets Jon to look up and across the bar just as the thought crosses his mind. Because his eyes catch on Sansa’s in the low light of the pub, and if he’s not mistaken she’s been looking his way all night. A smile cracks her pretty, flushed face in two, and there’s a cheesy pop song thumping through the speakers, and now seems like a good time to start doing something about the way she’s been looking at him. Because fuck it if it isn’t the same way he’s been looking at her.

“Fine.” Jon slams his empty mug on the counter as he pushes up from his seat. He’s rewarded with a round of applause from his mates. Tormund, Grenn, and Pyp are laughing at him again, but Edd and Sam simply seem relieved that Ygritte’s words hit their mark. “Fuck you, but fine.”

“Fuck _you_!” his friends chant in unison, all drunken joviality as Jon leaves them behind. But even as he walks away from their good-natured taunts, there’s no ignoring their chorus of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” that follows him all the way to Sansa’s table. It could be worse, he supposes with a grim smile in exchange for Sansa’s laugh, but probably not by much.

He offers a nod to her tittering friends—he notices Margaery Tyrell nudge Sansa hard in the ribs and it makes him stand a little straighter—but he pays them no further mind when he braces his hands on the back of Sansa’s chair and leans in to mutter in her ear: “I’m calling it a night. Wanna come?”

Really, Jon Snow is no great shakes at flirting; he’s shit at it. He’d realized the double entendre in the question before he asked it aloud and, although it’s possibly the worst line in the history of thirsty dudes trying to pick up the girl of their dreams, he’d said it, anyway. And—gods be good, he must be some kind of lucky—Sansa laughs again, this time a little harried and a little nervous when she takes a second to bite her lip, and Jon’s inner teenager urges him to soothe the ache she causes.

“Yeah,” she agrees, and Jon tries to ignore Margaery’s cheeky wink when Sansa takes his hand, “I’ll come.”

 _Several times_ , Jon’s errant mind pipes up as their fingers interlace, _if I’ve got anything to say about it_.

The cab ride is only ten minutes, give or take, but Jon would really like to get his tongue in her mouth before it’s over. He’d waited long enough, hadn’t he? Hell, he would have waited forever, and not just because Robb really _is_ gonna kick his arse when he finds out—which, pardon Jon for getting ahead of himself, is inevitable. Because he knows—he _knows_ —that once he gets a taste of Sansa, he’s never going to be able to stop.

“It’s hardly eleven,” Sansa says as their cab idles in late-night traffic. The air sifting through the cracked windows is balmy and sweet. “Pretty early night for us, isn’t it?”

 _I wanted to get you alone_ , Jon considers saying, but Sansa’s right: It _is_ early, which means he hadn’t had near enough to drink to start dropping lines like that. _Wanna come?_ had been bad enough, but that, at least, had had innocent enough origins. Telling her that he wants to be alone with her because it’s the only socially acceptable scenario to do all the things he wants to do to her? Yeah, Jon doesn’t think he could get away with that when he’s only got two drinks in him.

So he only scratches his stubble and says truly enough, “I was cockblocking Ygritte. She was gonna start hitting on you.”

Sansa’s chuckle is a full, lilting thing that sounds like a love song. “Bet Val would’ve been pleased.”

Jon shrugs but grins back at her. “Val would’ve joined her.”

“Oh, well, in that case…” She reaches for his hand nestled between them and gives his fingers a squeeze. “Thank you for sparing me a terrible evening of being fawned over by a pair of gorgeous girls. You’re a real knight in shining armor, you know?”

Jon’s not feeling particularly bold, but he can be fantastically stupid when he puts his mind to it, so he says, “Well if they were flirting with you, then I wouldn’t get my chance, now, would I?”

The cabbie snorts, and Jon would bet double the fare that the man’s rolling his eyes, too. But Sansa’s not—no, the corner of Sansa’s pretty, raspberry mouth is turned up in a teasing smirk that Jon wants to devour. So the cabbie can just fuck right off for all he cares.

“Oh, so you wanted to flirt with me, did you?” Sansa’s hand nearly leaves his, but Jon tightens his grip and her eyebrows shoot up in surprise when he tugs her across the seat. “ _Oh_ —are you—are you still joking?”

“No,” Jon breathes, short and simple and sweet. He can smell the lemon drop on her tongue, can almost taste it. His gut clenches, his trousers tighten when he sees the way her skirt’s hitched up on her thigh. His nose nudges hers and his gaze drops to her mouth. “I’m not joking, Sansa.”

Her eyes flick to his mouth in turn, and Jon doesn’t wait for another _“Oh”_ to slip past her lips before he takes them with his own.

She’s tart and tangy and warm, and her lips are sticky with gloss when they part beneath the insistence of his. The breaths exchanged are immediately heavy and harsh and set Jon’s heart to racing. He licks into the sweet, hot recesses of her mouth and swallows the sound she makes, something between a whimper and a moan. One of her hands is on his neck, the other tangled in his hair, and Jon never knew that anyone could drive him so crazy so fast.

He kisses her harder, bites her lip and sucks on her tongue; his hand sweeps up and grips her thigh just under the hem of her little black dress. Her skin is so fucking hot, and he can feel his own flush with heat and overwhelming, delicious want.

He pushes her roughly up against the door—too rough, perhaps, but Sansa seems to like it, so Jon shoves his hand up her skirt and tugs on her panties like they haven’t already made the cabbie wildly uncomfortable.

It’s the cabbie who puts a temporary stop to their desperate embrace. The car jerks to a halt in front of Jon’s building, jostling the couple so that Sansa’s head hits the window and Jon bites her lip harder than he’d meant to. They both curse, but the cabbie ignores their discomfort and they both privately agree that they probably deserved it, anyway. Jon throws the contents of his wallet into the front seat. The bank notes add up to far more than he owes, but Jon’s too busy pushing Sansa out of the cab and towards his front door to care. Even if he did spare it a thought, he’d decide he owed the cabbie for the emotional distress they’d caused in his backseat.

Not that Jon’s feeling particularly distressed as Sansa takes his mouth in the doorway, hands on his shoulders and dragging her body against his, but anyone forced to watch them go at it would likely beg to differ.

It’s a miraculous thing that his neighbors won’t be subjected to it, and Jon thanks the gods that he lives on the first floor. He would, admittedly, like to go down on Sansa in an elevator sometime, but he doesn’t have to fulfill every sexual fantasy right away. Having her at all is more than enough tonight.

He fumbles with the lock on his door while Sansa mouths his neck, but they stumble inside in due enough course. He kicks it shut and presses her against it, hands locked above her head with one of his own as the other takes her hip.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this?” he mutters between the kisses he’s dropping along her citrus-spritzed neck.

Jon’s a talker during sex. Ygritte had found it irksome when they were together—annoying as hell, as she’d put it, but in her efforts to hook him up with Sansa, she’d found out that dirty talk was a sweet spot for the other girl, and one that her handful of exes hadn’t indulged.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect for each other,” she’d drawled when she dropped that particular bomb two weeks ago. “I mean it, Snow, you give that girl the ride of her life or Val and I are gonna snatch her up. We’ve been wanting to try out something polyamorous, anyway. So fuck her better than those other ponces or lose her for good.”

And now that he’s got her, Jon certainly doesn’t intend to lose her. So his fingers bite into her hip as he rolls his into her, and he keeps on talking.

“God, but you feel good,” he murmurs into her neck, sucking little purple bruises into her skin all the while. “And I haven’t even got my cock in you yet…”

“Jesus—” Sansa swears, and tugs him back by the hair to search his face with wild, dark eyes. Her lipstick is smeared and it makes him hard. “Where’d you learn to talk like that?”

“You don’t like it?” He grins a little because he knows she does; Ygritte wouldn’t lie when she’s trying to get him laid.

“Oh, I like it,” Sansa readily admits. He loves how confident she is about it; if she keeps telling him what she likes, then he can make sure she’ll never have to ask anyone else but him for it. “I just didn’t think you would. Most guys—um, well, I’ve never—don’t _smirk_ at me like that, Jon, you know Joffrey and Harry and—”

“Fuck, Sansa, _don’t_ talk about them,” Jon very nearly pouts. She laughs, but kisses him soundly on the mouth to make up for it. He hums, and his hand kneads the curve of her waist.

“I only meant,” Sansa continues as she pulls long, luxurious kisses from his seeking lips, “that I don’t usually get what I want.”

“No,” Jon agrees, frowning slightly at the truth of her words, “you don’t.”

He doesn’t like that. Not that he’s eager to compete with some nonexistent guy-that-got-away, but all the same Jon doesn’t relish the thought that Sansa’s been treated poorly. Time and again she’d been taken for granted, and what’s more is that Jon hadn’t yet proven to be much better in that regard. He’d waited far too long to show her how he feels, had wasted time fucking about out of fear and self-doubt—really, it’s no wonder his friends had applauded him earlier when he finally, mercifully caved to his own desires.

If he hadn’t already intended to spend the night worshiping her, Jon would absolutely make a point to do so now.

“Alright.” Jon pulls away, only slightly. He loosens his grip on her wrists so she’s not so securely trapped against the door anymore. Much as he’d like to keep her there, he wants to let her lead. “Tell me what you want, then.”

Sansa eyes him a bit skeptically, searching his face for some sort of tell, but Jon remains stoic as ever. “And you’ll do it?”

“Aye, I’ll do it.”

“Okay.” She’s looking at his mouth again, chest hitching against his. The tip of her tongue peeks out to trace her lips, and Jon is hard-pressed not to push her dress up and just fuck her here and now. “Talk to me some more.”

_Oh, fuck yes._

Jon presses his mouth to hers again, open and hot and hungry. Her fingers twist into his shirt, tugging him closer, and Jon pushes one of his legs between hers so that her skirt bunches up higher and he can feel how hot she is for him.

“ _Mmm_ , damn it, Sansa,” he groans, nipping at her chin. “I can feel you getting wet. I could just rip this dress off and take you against the door, couldn’t I?

“Would you like that, sweetheart?” he continues as he tastes her throat and his hands trace her shape. “You want me to fuck you up against the wall? Or—” one of his hands dips to her rocking pelvis— “I could get you off with my fingers first.”

God, but he wants to get her off with his fingers. His mouth, too, definitely his mouth—

He’s kissing her neck again, fervently and a bit sloppily, but she’s rubbing against his leg and she moans when he leaves another hickey, so she must not mind that he’s slobbering all over her like a dog. He presses his thigh more firmly against her to give her the friction she’s after, and he imagines that she’ll ride his cock just as ardently, just as enthusiastically, and the thought’s got him thrusting his denim-clad erection into her like there are no clothes between them.

“You think I could make you come like this?” Jon wants to know. He yanks the straps of her dress down for easier access to her chest; he palms her over her scanty lace bra, then buries his mouth in her cleavage and sucks at the impossibly soft skin there. His breath is harsh and ragged. “With my face in your tits while you’re riding my leg like this?”

“I think you could make me come however you want,” Sansa near-on gasps when Jon jerks his hips forcefully against hers. She’s unbuttoning his shirt with clever fingers, finely manicured nails nipping into his chest, and his heart has gone wild from wanting her.

“Good,” he breathes against her neck. He plants one smacking kiss to her mouth, then promptly drops to his knees in front of her. Impatient, he pushes up her skirt and tears her panties in half. “Because I want to make you come like this.”

He doesn’t spare another moment before he’s burying his head between her thighs, tongue diving in to taste the musky tang of her cunt. One hand grips her thigh, squeezing fingerprints into bruises in her flesh, and Sansa’s fingers are twisting into his curls hard enough to hurt but Jon groans from the pain and the taste of her.

“Fucking _Christ_ ,” he moans, licking her, sucking her, loving her. He slips a finger into her, then two, and she’s so tight around him that he could come just thinking of the way she’ll feel around his dick. “Seven hells, Sansa, you’re so _good_ —”

She’s arching into his face, and Jon laps at her all the more eagerly for it. There’s a roaring in his ears so he couldn’t make out the intelligible words she’s breathing out above him if he tried, but her skin is flushed and she’s catching her bottom lip between her teeth, she’s saying his name, that much he knows, and she says it loud and long and repeatedly when he thumbs at her clit and makes her come.

She’s hardly come down from her orgasm when Jon stands and gets her legs around his waist. He’d fuck her against the door but he wants that citrus scent of hers staining his sheets, so he carries her to his bedroom while she kisses him, muttering endearments into his mouth.

“I’ve got you, love,” Jon promises when they fall onto the bed. He’d left his bedside lamp on earlier, so the room is bathed in muted gold and Sansa’s blown pupils gleam in the dim light. He strips his shirt the rest of the way off and tugs at her dress. “Get this off.”

“Bossy,” Sansa chides, but she shimmies out of her dress like it’s second nature when Jon would have struggled to peel the skin-tight material from her. He probably would have torn it the way he did her panties. The idea sends a thrill through him, but she’s already naked and that’s far more intriguing than any ideas he could entertain—likely he couldn’t entertain further fantasies, anyway, since a naked Sansa has just succeeded in breaking his brain.

He’s hurriedly undoing his trousers, but catches Sansa’s wrist before she can touch him.

“Oh, I'm ready to go,” he assures her as he kicks his pants off, then crawls back up her body, stealing kisses along the way. “Trust me.”

Jon busies himself with her collarbone, his fingers snaking down to her cunt again to make sure she’s ready. He mumbles something about a condom but she tells him not to worry about it, she’s on the pill, and Jon is glad for it, if only because now he doesn’t have to leave her in his bed while he rummages through his dresser.

He tongues behind her ear and mumbles into it, “You want me to keep talking to you, pretty girl?”

“Mhmmm.” Her fingers card through his hair and a jolt shoots through his veins. It’s their first night together and he already fucking loves it when she twists in his curls like that.

“You’re so gorgeous,” Jon rumbles into her skin as he laves attention upon every inch. He smooths a hand over her hair, then down her neck and shoulder. Her hips rock into his. “ _Mmmm_ , fuck me, Sansa, you’re so sexy. Just looking at you gets me hard. You know how many times I’ve wanted to drag you into a corner of the pub and just take you right there? You always look so good, sweetheart, and I wanna muss you up…”

 _“Jon,”_ she says when he takes one of her legs over his hipbone. His cock nudges against her and he groans, “ _Sansa_ , can I—”

“Yes,” she says against his lips. She pulls his hair again, this time to bring him more fully against her mouth so she can suck on his tongue. “Yeah, Jon, I want you in me—”

For once, Jon doesn’t need telling twice. He pushes into her, hard and fast, and they each swallow the other’s deep, grateful moans as he thrusts and she meets him for every beat. Sansa’s neck arches back and Jon starts marking her skin again, the breath ripping from his chest with every one of her low, pretty sighs. Her body molds into his like a fucking dream, and none of his dreams could do her reality justice. How could he have thought, even for a moment, that the fantasies he’d held so dear for so long would ever be enough? Now that he’s had her for real, there’s nothing else he wants.

“God, I want you,” he tells her now, the confession spilling from him as their hips snap together, while Sansa holds his waist and he grips her just behind the knee. “I’ve wanted you for so long, gorgeous girl, wanted to roll you over on my couch in the morning and wake you up with my tongue in your pretty cunt.”

“Yeah?” Sansa says through half a smile, half a gasp when he finds her clit again. “ _Mmf_ , that’s good, Jon, god, you make me feel good—”

“Yeah?” he echoes. He thrusts harder now, faster, bucking into her like an overeager adolescent but, he hopes, with far more finesse. “Is that right, sweet girl? You like the way I touch you? God, I’d touch you every day if you’d let me—”

She rears up to kiss him, just a quick, fleeting thing and she tells him, “I’d let you. You’d _better_.”

He grins as best he can when really all he wants to do is ground out her name as he grinds into her warm, wet cunt that’s like the most delicious vice around him. “You gonna start bossing me around now?”

“Mmm, yeah, I— _fuck_ , Jon—” Sansa’s breath is the sharpest of exhalations when his fingers start working at her in time with his thrusts.

“I just wanna make you feel good,” Jon mutters into her ear. He sucks on the lobe, quickens his movements, and all but growls, “Come on, Sansa, love, come for me—”

He feels her muscles tighten—in her cunt, in her thighs, in the way her fingernails bite into his ribcage, and she’s saying his name all over again, her body pulsing in time with his when she tells him _keep going keep going keep going_ and he’s pounding into her like he’ll die if he doesn’t, her back arches and her hands are in his hair again and _that’s_ what does it, the way she holds onto him and whispers his name into his mouth and _fuck off_ if you think he’s not gonna marry this woman whose laugh is like a love song and looks at him like he hung the moon just for her.

And if that were, like, celestially and scientifically possible, he absolutely _would_ hang the moon for her.

Jon rolls off her, but not away; indeed, he’s never letting her get away from him again. He wraps an arm around her waist and tugs her into his side, dropping an open-mouthed kiss to her forehead as he strokes her hair. Their chests rise and fall harshly, but Jon wants Sansa in his airspace, even if she makes it hard for him to catch his breath.

“Well.” Sansa takes a long gulp of air, then licks the dip in his collarbone. “Mmm. Ygritte wasn’t lying. You _are_ good with your mouth.”

“What the fuck?” Jon chuckles. “Don’t talk about Ygritte when I’m basking in the afterglow. I don’t care how much she’s lauded my sexual prowess, I’m still pissed at her for threatening to hit on you.”

Sansa hums. “She told me you were quite territorial over me, too.”

“Yeah, well—” Jon pauses to kiss her again, feeling more content than he’s been in months, since he’d started wasting his time mired in pining over something he’d been convinced was unattainable— “Ygritte just knows everything, doesn’t she? Do me a favor, love, and don’t tell her, otherwise neither of us will ever hear the end of it.”

“I don’t care what you say,” she snorts, but hugs him close, “I’m sending her an Edible Arrangements.”

Jon chuckles again. “You say that as if I’m letting you out of my bed.”

Sansa seems to consider this, then tries to push away from him. “You won’t be ready for round two for at least another ten minutes, I’ve got time to place an online order. Where’s my phone—”

“In the hall, where you dropped your purse.” Jon effortlessly keeps her right where she is, and rolls back on top of her to keep her there. He braces himself on his forearms and trails long, lazy kisses along her jawline. “It can wait. Besides, if you send her an Edible Arrangements now, she’ll think I haven’t fucked you silly yet and she’ll come over here to kick my arse.”

He reaches her mouth and takes it like they’ve got all the time in the world; and now that he’s stopped wasting it, they _do_. He doesn’t break the kiss, only murmurs through it, “And I don’t want to be interrupted.”

“Mmm…” Sansa wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him flush against her. “Well I can’t very well argue with that.”

* * *

In the morning—or mid-afternoon, really—their weekend routine continues, with just a few tweaks:

Sansa makes coffee and eggs again, but this time Jon fucks her in the shower afterwards, then again on the couch when they’d pretended they were going to watch bad daytime dramas. Jon declares it a much better use of his Saturday than nursing his usual hangover. Sansa playfully disagrees, until Jon sinks to his knees in front of her and convinces her otherwise.

At some point, Sansa does manage to place an order for an Edible Arrangements to Ygritte’s address. Jon, meanwhile, responds to his friend’s _Ay, Snow. Fuck your girl yet?_ text with the middle finger emoticon.

Between the two of them, Ygritte has her answer, and that’s quite good enough for her smug sensibilities. She sends a photo of Sansa’s gift to Tormund, Grenn, Pyp, Edd, and Sam, with the rather self-satisfied caption: _Told you he’d get to business if we pissed him off enough, but would any of you listen? No. And now I’m not sharing my fruit with any of you._


End file.
